


the divine beauty of the everlasting sun

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Fingering, M/M, Metaphors, POV Second Person, Wall Sex, a whole load of metaphors, because i like metaphors, metaphors are wonderful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt from tumblr:<br/>MCKIRK smut - jim is the sun and McCoy loves him - Anonymous</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <em> “Bones?” He says, and you see him toss the dataPADD down on his obsessively neat desk. He stands, thin legs strewn over the floor and you stifle your laugh because you still call him bambi in your head. “S’matter?” He asks, and he sounds concerned. He walks towards you, and you can’t keep your eyes from flickering to his hips swaying in a rhythmic pendulum swing that threatens to undue your tremulous control.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	the divine beauty of the everlasting sun

_**the divine beauty of the everlasting sun** _

He’s the sun.

He’s this puzzle, this jigsaw of broken bones and jagged pieces that don’t really fit together. He’s blond haired and blue eyed, bright and the sun revolves around him like the moon revolves around earth. He’s hurt and rage and survival and depression all wrapped into one sunlight package that resembles the brightness of the sun that blinds you when you look. He’s this galaxy, open and vast and ready to take in pieces of people around him.

You see Uhura in his graceful walk, his dancers limbs twirling and falling in an state of elegant nonchalance, the confident uptilt of his chin where once before it was misguided defeat and feral hardness that had straightened his neck and smothered his walk. You even see Spock in the raise of a delicate eyebrow, logical and fascinating in various turns and you wonder that if he doesn’t moan, but rather talks, he’ll sound like a Vulcan.

You see Chekov in his exuberance, his energy infectious and threatening to bubble over the top of his coldly bright façade. You see Sulu in his face, the turn of his chin and the pride in the lines of his impeccable face. You see Scotty in the rhythmic tapping of his fingers, searching and searching for something even he’s not quite sure about.

But more importantly, you see yourself. You see yourself in the love that lightens his eyes, the worry that makes his hands tremble. You see it in the bite on the back of his long neck, you see it in the way he smiles quick and fleeting but genuinely at you. But more, you taste it in the whiskey you drink as you watch him watch you, you see it in the constellation of bruises that pattern his ribs and chest, the finger marks stretching across his trembling thighs and his sharp hips, you hear it in the moan he makes as you grip him tight, you feel it in the tightening of his body as you push against him, turning two ill-fitting bodies into a single entity; neither of you are sure where you end and he begins and where he ends and you begins.

You like it like that.

You watch him fondly; he’s sitting at his desk now, dressed in nothing but a pair of ill-fitting boxers and a large hoodie of yours that is far too large. He’s got his ridiculous glasses on that keep slipping down his nose as he stares forlornly down at the dataPADD held elegantly in front of him.

You think he’s magnificent when he’s on the bridge; when he’s golden and bright and you and others are like flowers that turn to face the sun and he’s this destructive force that promises retribution should you hurt something he has deemed as his. But then, when he’s spread out for you, elegance and nonchalance and the small brokenness of his shines dully through the cracks, you think he’s beautiful.

He doesn’t need to be fixed by you, just like you don’t want him to fix you.

You want to fix yourselves and if he just so happens to be with you when you do, perhaps he has a helping hand.

You watch, tenderly and quietly, as he tilts his head, baring that long neck that still carries the evidence of your lust. He brings an absentminded hand up to it, scratching it lightly and you smother your grin as he shivers. He’s yours and you’re his and its wonderful; Jocelyn took the whole damn world and Joanna in the divorce but Jim gave you the whole damn galaxy and more and you can’t help but feel a rush of fondness for the broken orphan warrior that parades as an unbroken adult to try and fit into social norms.

You wonder what his crew would do if they found out he preferred paper books, books that would smell and creak and smother your desk in Medbay and always fall beneath your beds in the Academy, what they would think if they found out he was such a nerd for engineering and had had a helping hand in designing several of the key components of several Starships that had recently been built, that he had two doctorates even though he was only twenty seven. You imagine it would be quite funny, but Jim wouldn’t be laughing because he thinks his crew hates him, thinks they don’t respect when that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

You all worship him, trust and respect him, praises the ground he walks on as he smiles and cheers even with the Ensigns that threaten to faint at the thought that this is the Captain.

He’s brightness and warmth wrapped around a tundra core of feral fragility and a warrior’s spirit.

You wonder how anyone could ever hate him.

“Jim,” You say, and its strained and pleading.

He lifts his head, and his eyes are wide beneath his slipping glasses and he looks small and fragile though you have never known someone as strong as this contradicting man.

“Bones?” He says, and you see him toss the dataPADD down on his obsessively neat desk. He stands, thin legs strewn over the floor and you stifle your laugh because you still call him _bambi_ in your head. “S’matter?” He asks, and he sounds concerned. He walks towards you, and you can’t keep your eyes from flickering to his hips swaying in a rhythmic pendulum swing that threatens to undue your tremulous control.

“ _Jim,”_ You groan again, and you can feel the gutturalness of it wreck the softness of his name before you grab him by the shoulders. The edge of your heat wreaks the softness of his mouth, the sharpness of your lust making his thighs tremble and a moan escape the wetness of his delectable mouth.  He moans again, and you feel his hands traverse up your shirt, gripping it and pulling you even closer. “Jim, _darlin’_ ,” You whisper against his mouth and he trembles, shivers in your arms as you grasp the back of his neck to pull him further against you.

The first time you had called him “ _darlin’_ ” in your southern drawl he had turned bright red, tripped, and hadn’t be able to look at you for a week.

“ _Bones!”_ he pleads, voice soft and high.

It breaks the bonds, and you can feel something snap inside of you. Frantic, with little thought but for the lithe body against you, you push Jim against the wall, wedging a thigh between his legs so he’s forced to ride your thigh. His head falls back, a long slow moan lifting from his lungs and carrying into the air as his body convulses. He grips you at the shoulders, his nails pressing deep and leaving crescents that you know you’ll feel later.

“Bo-bones,” Is whispered into the air, your hips forcing his closer to the wall even as you hitch your thigh higher, Jim only letting out a strangled whimper as he bucks against it. You bury your face inside his neck, licking the sun-like skin that tastes of ozone and sweat. Even when subdued, nothing but a slave to his pleasure that threatens to wreck him, he is still the sun, bright and indomitable until he allows it.

“ _Jim_ -,” You can’t find the right words to convey your need; how you _need_ to be inside him, to feel the wetness of his warmth and the tightness of his muscles when he clutches you too him and threatens to never let go. You can’t find the words to say you want him to bury beneath your skin until the sun shines from beneath the cracks of your flesh, bright and mesmerising because this man is the sun and you are but a satellite that orbits it in the hopes of finding just a little bit of that brilliant warmth. “Darlin’ I gotta-I gotta be – be inside,”

You stutter and stall, even as your hips threaten to push Jim right through the wall.

He scrabbles uselessly for a moment, face open and honest in a pleasure you never thought yourself would cause, he’s truth and honesty and survival wrapped into one wholesome package and he lights fires likes he lights your heart, slowly then all at once. You press fingers to his collarbones, feeling the delicate break of them beneath your trembling flesh and he gasps, low and quiet in the back of his throat as he tightens his legs around your waist.

“Bones – please _pleaseplease_ ,” he begs and he pulls at one of your shoulders, your bicep, even as you press the constellation of Leo onto his skin in purpling bruises that you know he will wear like a badge tomorrow. You shiver, even as you press hurried kisses to his shaking shoulders, his hardness against your shirtless stomach giving you a sort of lust that tangles in your lungs and tightens around your throat and doesn’t want to let go.

You wrench the large hoodie from him, tossing it carelessly over your shoulder to discard it and you nearly blind yourself when you look at his slim torso, sleek sun-skin bright and warm beneath your surgeons hands and it feels like your holding something precious.

The sun is your god and Jim beneath you is your alter.

 You catch the dusk of a nipple in your mouth, and the brightness of Jim only lightens even more as he gives a long whine, scrabbling uselessly for purchase at our shoulders as you press a hand along his length as your thigh threatens to unseat him.

“ _Bones!”_ He cries, sun bright and lust filled as you begin to mouth at the constellation you had buried beneath his skin that threatens to destroy it. Crafty hands start at your trousers, the belt clinking lightly in the silence of your rooms before it’s whipped away by skilled hands and your trousers are being shoved down your thighs.

You hitch him higher, arm a band around his waist as he mewls lightly, feeling the hardness of you against his trembling buttocks. You scrabble at the tatty material of his boxers, and he helps you rip it off, strength and lust a deadly combination as he grips you tighten and closer to him and you can feel the blistering warmth of him against your torso even as the coldness of his inside threatens to slip inside and drown you until there is nothing left but ice and bitterness and coldness.

Your fingers are sticky slick with saliva, pressed against the roof of his mouth as he makes muffled sound around their girth. The lubricant, odourless and hypoallergenic, sits at your hip and though you both knew you’ll need it, you can’t look away from the man writhing in front of you. He’s a supernova, bright and flaring, and he always will be. He gasps as you release his mouth, only to swallow his sounds with your own mouth as the harshness of your lust softness the wetness of his eager mouth as your tongue mixes with his.

“ _Jim_ ,” You murmur, a benediction in the form of a name. Your southern drawl in thick, rounding the vowels and softening the consonants and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as Jim when he gasps, murmurs against the skin of your lips as he splays himself for you. Its intoxicating, _addicting_ and you don’t think you’ll ever get enough of it.

You tighten your arm around his waist, hitching him up again even as your hand explores him, slick with sticky saliva and the clear countenance of lubricant mixed with desire falling from him. He moans, mouth wide and obscene with his pleasure and you huff a laugh against his neck, feeling the fluttering of his pule against your temple as you push further inside him, his muscles swallowing your fingers with the pleasurable ease of repetition.

“B- _bones_ ,” He moans, whining high and warningly as he twitches against your stomach, his hardness wet and sweet as you push further against him. His glasses slide down his nose, and you’re gentle as you nudge them back up with your own nose. He blinks, wide eyed and splayed legs, as you do so and you nip sweetly at the plump skin of his lower lip. He shivers, thighs trembling as you stretch him gently.

“ _Darlin’_ ,” You gasp and the sweet stretch of skin on his neck still tastes of sweat and ozone. “Please-I need you - _I need you_ – I gotta-I gotta,” Your lust is far much for you, and your coherency is suffering. But he seems to get what you are saying, for he moans, loud and sweet, in the back of his throat and he tilts his hips eagerly.

You grip yourself, hand sticky with clear lubricant and it takes all your breaking control to not simply take and take, to take the sun away from the clear blue skies and to thrust him into a world of pleasure where the stars alight and the planets sing in tune with Jims soul.

“Bones-,” He says again, whispers and his lust is plain, obvious and you can’t help the cracking of your control as the sun pleads with you and begs you to take him. “Please _please – now!”_

He screams, high and as bright as the stars, as you push inside, the warmth of him even brighter than that of his actual skin, and you close your eyes, numbing your senses to ease the strain as the sun burns brighter and brighter and you wax and wane as the sun takes you and you don’t even fight. You bury your head in Jims shoulder, clutching the man to you with a hand at his thigh whilst the other leans against the wall just besides his haloing head.

He’s gasping, heart pounding and his chest rising and falling as you orbit him. He scrabbles at your shoulder, the other hand firmly entwined in your sweat slick hair. “ _Please,”_  he begs of you, sweet and bright and you can’t even begin to think of denying him.

Your hips move, swinging and rhythmic, and he scream, high and sweet, as you torture him. The arm by his head is fisted, taut with broken control as he pleads with you, a litany of prayers that are surrendered to the falling stars and the burning planets that witness it.

When you fall, he falls with you, your name on his lips and it sounds sweet and desperate. A little choke of a word that you can barely understand as you press closer than ever to him.

The sun is brightness and warmth and you want him to bury beneath your skin, shining his warmth through the cracks.

He does so anyway.


End file.
